pieces of us
by swallowedsong
Summary: Modern AU. Killian and Emma have a past, forged as if by fate, through tragedy and time, but she never lets him in. He's almost ready to throw in the towel, but something keeps him hanging on. "You can pretend all you like, love, that we haven't been building towards this since we met. But you'll be lying to yourself."


**disclaimer: own nothing**

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><p>1.<p>

There is a trail of _stuff_ littered across his gym, altering him to Emma's presence in her usual way. They have been friends – or, whatever it is that they are – for almost eleven years. By now, he knows that when Emma comes for an after-hours workout, she will drop clues so that he knows to come looking for her after he finishes with his paperwork.

Paperwork that feels increasingly time-consuming to deal with. He knows that soon he's going to have to make a decision about hiring a new manager to deal with all these pesky financial details, but ever since he caught the previous manager Eddie – that rotten prick – stealing from the gym, he's been slow to find a replacement, one that he can really trust. He rests his head in his hands for a moment, running his fingers through his hair, wishing that he had paid more attention to mathematics in school instead of taking on every fight he could. Finally he gives up to find Emma, finding it soothing that she still comes to him when she's in need of comfort.

This time around, she left her gym bag right outside the door to his office (he notices a formal-looking envelope sticking out of the bag, and he makes a note to ask her about it later). Next in his path is her long-sleeved workout top and yoga pants scattered somewhere between the boxing ring and the corner in the back of the gym where he keeps the punching bags. He wanders back in that direction and sees an abandoned set of wraps laying one the ground next to her as she works the small speed bag in the furthest reaches of his gym.

He's spent more time than he'd like to admit cataloguing Emma Swan's behaviors – devising patterns within her seemingly strange habits and her tendency to redirect any and all personal questions away with equally pointed questions in return. In the ten years that they have known each other – and the past five years where they have been doing…well, whatever it is that they were doing – he knows her moods by where she chooses to train.

Tonight, she's in the darkest corner of the room and he knows, immediately, that whatever it is that is contained in that envelope he noted moments ago was enough to cause her to retreat as far within herself as she can. (Which is also the only time she sneaks into the back door of his building and grossly overuses her privileges. And if he's honest with himself – which he tries to be even at great personal cost – he doesn't mind at all.)

"Emma."

She either does not hear him or is actively ignoring him, because he says one more time, "Emma, love," Before she turns her head to acknowledge his presence.

She keeps pumping her arms, while maintaining eye contact with him and he knows from her expression that whatever drives her today is not some job-related frustration that usually brings her to him. It is something _new_ and _burning _her from the inside out.

He wonders if he'll even be able to get her to talk about it.

Emma's been working the small punching bag for what looks like the better part of an hour, based on when the bag was _not_ outside his door and when it appeared.

She tosses her extra wraps at him and says, "Spar with me?"

It's not really a question, because she knows he'll say yes – but she pretends to ask because it's the polite thing to do.

In between punches, she tells him about the envelope that he saw peeking out of her bag earlier in the night.

"I got a letter in the mail today."

He's a patient man (Which, Lord, if his father and brother could see him today, they'd be shocked to know that gone was their impulsive lad who fought with words and fists at any perceived slight or injustice.)

"Was it from – "

She cuts him off with a quick shake to her head, "No, it wasn't from Neal. I know he's out of jail by now, but he hasn't made contact."

He feels a surge of relief in his gut, knowing that the other man has finally left her alone. Ten years ago, back when the world went to shit for _all _of them, Neal had sent her letter after letter, always unanswered by Emma, until five years ago when she sent him a short missive telling him to back the fuck off.

He holds the boxing pads up again, and repeats the action for hours.

2.

They're barely inside his apartment when she whirls around and pins him, back against the door. His heart hammers in his chest. It doesn't matter how many times they have come together, she still fills him with such _need._ He can barely keep up with her as her lips cling to his, her tongue quickly moving past the seam of his lips, head angling, as she devours him. His hands are on her shoulders and he exerts some pressure as he tries to slow her down.

He wants to savor her taste, but she never lets him.

_3._

_Ten Years Ago_

He wakes up in a bare hospital room, clinical blue walls and machines beeping to his right and left. He tests his arms and legs only to find that all of his limbs feel like lead weights and he can barely turn his head so he closes his eyes and tries to burrow further into his pillow.

Almost involuntarily, he lets out a low groan, to which he hears a soft female voice, "Are you okay? Can I call a nurse to get you anything? Please, let me help you."

He just whispers, "Milah?"

There's a pause and the voice says, "No, sorry, you don't know me, but you were in an accident. I was there. My name's Emma."

"Emma," he murmurs, trying to decipher her tone of voice and who she might be to him that she's waiting by his hospital bed, wanting to help. Her voice remains soft and even, but there's a trace of _something _there. He's not sure if it's guilt or sadness or…_both?_

"What happened?"

"I'll go get the doctor, he can explain better than I can."

She places her hand on his wrist, which he knows because he can feel some degree of pressure, but his nerves are not _tingling_. He can hear the blasted tone from the heart rate monitor increase in frequency and she presses harder saying, "Please, please don't panic. We'll get you answers soon."

Then she flees the room.

.

This time, when the woman – Emma, he reminds himself – returns, she has a tall white-haired doctor in tow. He has a long face with sharp features, clearly not designed to comfort patients whatsoever. At the doctor's heels is a team of young doctors and nurses. Moreover, he knows, in that moment, whatever news there is, it is _not_ good.

Emma sits on the chair next to his bed, and maybe he's in such a blur from the medicine that's clearly flowing through his veins, making everything a fog, but he's so glad she's there. And when she takes his hand, he feels comforted. Which is plainly ridiculous, because he's never met the woman before, and even though she has sunshine blonde hair and soft green eyes, there's a part of his brain that knows – she's not Milah and if Milah's not here, then something has gone terribly wrong.

So why does her touch make him less anxious instead of more?

.

She comes by every day that he was in the blasted hospital.

He rails at her – yelling about fate, about her bastard of a boyfriend and his father – and about how they _owed_ him. And she took it. She just sits and hold his hand, or sometimes yells right back at him about how he needed to suck it up and figure out his life because there are no goddamn guarantees in life and at least he was alive.

It goes on like this until one day, in the middle of a tirade; she is served with legal papers and promptly faints

He's his feet and cupping her face in his hands, saying her name over and over and over again in moments. His muscles weary from exertion after so long remaining immobile, but – regardless of how many times he cursed her – he has begun to grow fond of her.

And it frightens him that when her eyes flutter open, he finally notices the dark circles under her eyes, and the vulnerable expression, and the way her hands immediately went to her stomach.

"Please," she whispers, "I need a doctor."

4.

_Present Day_

The next morning is the worst. He catches attempting to leave before dawn even breaks. His alarm not even close to going off. He can see the guilt written across her features, but he feels no mercy left as he bites out, "So that's it, you're just going to run away now. Now that things aren't in that safe little bubble you've wrapped yourself in."

Last night she had opened up to him – after. In a move unusual for her, she'd broken down and admitted that she had heard from the child's adoptive mother.

_Henry is his name_, she had whispered, her voice breaking through the syllables. She'd shared with him the letter that the boy had written and the photo his mother had provided. He wanted to meet her, she said, written – not typed – in small, neat cursive. She had some reservations, the adoptive mother shared, but she was willing to set them aside to make her son happy.

Their limbs still entwined, lying in bed, after she told him the tale, for the first time _she_ was the one pleading with him. Begging him to take it all away, all of the conflict, the hopes, the desires for _family_, and turn them into burning, grasping, fleeting passion.

And now she is pushing him away yet again. As he watches her with eyes wary, the words tumble out of his mouth, "I can't do this anymore."

It's the stillness in his tone that makes her startle, her clothes dropping from her hands in surprise, as she takes two steps – stumbles, really – and lands inelegantly on the bed. Normally her half-dressed state would push him into _want_, but he's too angry, too sad. _Too much._

He knows that she does not understand because this is what they _did._ In her mind, they used each other up for as long and as hard as needed. They certainly did not _talk _about anything (either before or after). She trained at his gym. They shared some history. And they had an unspoken agreement.

Until now, until he cannot help but show her the tiny flicker of _hurt_ that he feels, every time she leaves him, every time she lets him in just-far-enough that he can see that her vulnerabilities exist, but not far enough that she _shares_ their burdens. Unable to hold them in any longer, they come bursting through before he tries to pull them back.

She leaves anyway.

5.

She doesn't stop by the gym for weeks, then months, until he's given up on her completely.

(There was a part of him that had hoped she would regret leaving. That she would come back to him. That he would take her back without her even begging, because he loves her that much.)

(He can admit it now. He loves her. He _loves _her.)

(He's trying to forget her.)

6.

When she returns, she does it in quiet fashion, as she usually acts.

She knocks on his door on a rainy Monday evening. She knows (he knows that she knows) that he closes the gym early on Mondays, to give him the afternoon free. It's a rare day that he does not spend poring over the books, or training his boys for matches. Monday's though, Monday's are his.

She's never come over on a Monday before.

So when he hears the knock, he's not expecting it to be her. She's drenched, her make-up running down her face. He would like to hope that it's rain _and _tears, but he knows her too well to assume. He does not let her in immediately, his arm leans against the door jamb to prevent her from entering the apartment.

(Even though he knows that, in the end, he will forgive her.)

(It is clear from the moment he saw her again that she owns his soul and God have mercy on them both.)

She is hurt, he can tell, at the flicker in her eyes, but he hopes that she understands, understands that she cannot demand anything of him. She starts talking and it's as if she cannot says words fast enough. She tells him everything and more – she rambles about her visit with Henry and how she's gone back a few times. She talks about his mother, Regina, and how tough it is for both of them. She tells him about Henry's round face and big eyes, and the ways that he smiles and reminds her of Neal. She tells him that it doesn't hurt anymore, that it suddenly felt okay, knowing that Henry is loved and taken care of, that he was given a chance for something better.

She tells him that she wants something better, too.

7.

The next morning is their best. As the sunlight streams into his room, pillows and sheets strewn across the floor, he wakes up first and watches her eyelashes flutter before opening.

"I'm sorry," she says again.

"I know," he replies.

She leans in and as her lips meet his, he smiles.


End file.
